


Five Times Douglas Was There to Protect Martin and One Time Martin Protected Him

by Verabird



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: 5 Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the little things which always lead to the big things and then Martin gains courage he never thought he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Douglas Was There to Protect Martin and One Time Martin Protected Him

**Author's Note:**

> My Dutch is average at best, please forgive me.

Martin is always extraordinarily nervous around customs and today is no exception. Douglas coolly glides through with a conspiratorial nod at everyone in sight, Arthur blithely passes with a smile and no problems, and Carolyn is professional as ever.

Martin is touching the straps of his flight bag, running his fingers up and down the coarse and threading handles, knowing full well there is no reason for this trepidation.

It's not even as if the customs officers in Toronto are particularly menacing, in fact they seem altogether disinterested. Martin opens the side compartment of his flightbag and carefully extracts his passport from the pristine plastic wallet inside.

"Martin Crieff," A customs officers murmurs, clicking his tongue and running his index finger down various numbers and names.

"Captain," Martin says quickly. He can't help himself and instantly bites his tongue. From the other side of the barriers Carolyn is checking her watch pointedly and holding Arthur back from duty free with the other hand. Douglas is leaning against the opposite wall, eyebrows raised.

"Is that so?"

"Y-yes," Martin attempts to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"You don't look like the captains we usually get here."

Martin doesn't reply. A heat is rising in his cheeks, he can feel it, burning in embarrassment. He knows it's obvious and he bows his head slightly hoping it will go unnoticed.

The custom's officer looks up, eyes flicking between Martin's shifting countenance and the passport in his hand he opens his mouth to say something.

"I think we'd better step into the offi-"

"Is everything al right, Antoine?"

Martin's cheeks seem to burn harder. He doesn't need Douglas to rescue him, doesn't need Douglas, who is on first name terms with the offending officer, to give any kind of assistance.

Antoine glances between Douglas and Martin. Douglas has moved closer to Martin in the interim, raised a protective arm, a barrier almost. He's not touching Martin, his palm is barely close at all, but the signal is clear.

"I hope so," Antoine replies. "I wonder if some further questioning is in order. All routine, of course."

"I mustn't hinder you from your important work," Douglas speaks so calmly, this is small fish for him. "Did I mention earlier, we'll be passing back through Toronto in a few weeks, and I have an awful lot of...stuff just lying around that we might not be able to fit on the plane."

Antoine leans in slightly, lowers his voice. "Stuff?"

"Egyptian cotton. A tonne. Far more than I know what to do with."

Douglas' eyes narrow for the briefest of moments.

"I look forward to seeing you then Mr Richardson, and you are free to go Captain." Antoine waves them both away and there's a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

As soon as they're through the other side Martin turns to Douglas, he's fuming. "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"You know."

Douglas ignores him, taps Carolyn on the shoulder and keeps Arthur distracted with conversation until they reach the plane. GERTI is humming softly and they're all grateful to be back on her and ready to depart.

The post take off checks are complete when Martin speaks again, gripping the column in two sturdy hands, expression set.

"I didn't need rescuing."

"And I didn't rescue you. I wanted to get home on time, that involved having the correct number of pilots on the plane, I assure you my motives were entirely selfish."

Martin wonders how Douglas can say such things with a resolutely blank expression and steady voice. He doesn't press it.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours into the flight and Douglas presses a button, calls for coffee. Arthur is eager to comply and within minutes he's barrelling through the door with two mugs in his hands.

"Hello chaps!"

"Thank you Arthur," Douglas says, taking one of the mugs for himself and setting the other down beside Martin. "Terrific as always."

Arthur hovers for a few minutes while Douglas points out a cloud in the distance he thinks looks a bit like a camel, and then he's off into the cabin.

"Coffee's there for you Martin," Douglas prompts. "If you need it."

"Thanks," Martin murmurs, reaching out absently for the mug.

Douglas has raised two daughters through bumps and falls and a lifetime of sharp objects, so his reflexes are razor sharp. He manages to catch the falling mug before it's truly had a chance to drop from the uneven surface it rests upon. He cries out as the hot water splashes his fingers, and Martin is instantly calling for Arthur and an ice pack.

"That was close," Douglas breathes, putting the burnt fingers in his mouth, sucking and wincing.

Martin looks at him curiously. "That was my fault."

"I couldn't let it fall on you, could I?"

"Why not? You've only burnt yourself instead."

Douglas shrugs him off and gratefully takes the towel-wrapped ice Arthur produces a few minutes later. He presses it to his finger tips. It's not so bad really, they'll probably stop stinging by the end of the flight.

"Why did you do that?"

"Oh Martin, stop arguing with me. It was just instinct I didn't mean to."

"As long as you're ok."

Douglas rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, stop fussing."

Martin thanks Douglas for it several times over the flight, until Douglas is thoroughly sick of it, a small part of him wishing he'd let the scalding stuff drench Martin's thigh instead. He's lying to himself of course.

 

* * *

 

 

Douglas is tired when they reach Fitton, knowing that he still has to drive home. He feels exhausted, flying into perpetual darkness can do that to a man, and he's already thinking of a comfortable bed to fall into.

"Paperwork tomorrow?"

Douglas isn't expecting Martin to agree, but Martin just yawns and nods. So much for small mercies.

"See you in the morning?"

"And you. Get enough rest won't you?"

"Mmm...what? Oh! Yes! Yes of course."

Douglas eyes Martin suspiciously, but decides to leave it, shouldering his bag and heaving off to his car. He slings it unceremoniously into the back seat and slumps into the front. He's glad for the copious amounts of coffee now. They'll get him home and then he can sleep. Finally.

He glances across the airfield car park and watches as Martin climbs into his battered van. It shifts massively under his weight; the suspension is long gone. Douglas decides to wait for Martin to drive off first, something about peace of mind, but Martin's taking ages. Douglas wouldn't put it past him to be doing the paperwork in the front seat.

After a few moments the van door opens and Martin's climbing out, moving round the front and popping open the bonnet. A good sign, Douglas thinks. He waits to see if Martin manages to find the problem, but no such luck.

Douglas knows he could just drive away now and still be home before the small hours of tomorrow reach him. Obviously he can't do that. He can't leave Martin.

He doesn't really know what he's doing, but sees himself turn off the ignition and get out the car.

"Problem?" He calls across the silence of the car park.

Martin jumpd, looks up, grimaces.

"It won't start."

"Let me have a look."

Douglas tinkers for a few moments before deciding it's not an easy enough problem to fix without the proper tools. "You'll have to get a mechanic out here. Ask one of the boys to give it a once over in the morning."

"You can't fix it?"

Douglas looks into Martin's eyes, absurdly hopeful eyes. He shakes his head, desperately wishing that he could just to appease those eyes. Martin's face falls.

"I'll have to stay here."

"What are you talking about?"

"My place is too far, I won't get the required hours even if I manage to leave right now."

Douglas can sense where the conversation is going. Somehow he'd imagined inviting Martin back to his place would go slightly differently. They way he'd envisioned it had definitely involved a warm evening south of the equator. He shook that thought quickly.

"You can't sleep here," He protests, and before Martin can open his mouth to suggest he'll stay in the portacabin Douglas is interrupting. "You can stay at mine."

It takes nearly five whole minutes to persuade Martin to get anywhere near his car, and another three to convince him to just get in the front seat already. Martin can be too stubborn for his own good.

It's a good twenty minutes drive back to Douglas' house, but it's an easy one at this time of night. Douglas feels a bit concerned that Martin doesn't make too much protesting conversation, but then he glances over and sees closed eyes and a steady rise and fall of his chest. Douglas sighs.

He pulls into the drive slowly, making as little noise as possible while the tyres crunch on the gravel. He looks across to Martin. The poor man hasn't slept properly in days, weeks perhaps, Douglas can tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor in his cheeks. It's not fair to wake him now.

Maybe Douglas can just leave him in the car. No, of course not, that's a stupid idea. What would Martin think of him when he woke the next morning. Douglas lets out a small groan and closes his own eyes.

He moves round to the passenger door and opens it slowly and quietly. Martin's seatbelt is easy to manouvre and then Douglas is tipping him into his arms. He's so light, Douglas can practically feel his bones digging into him at all angles. Martin definitely needs to eat more. Douglas makes a mental note not to bet on the cheese tray for at least a few weeks.

Douglas is fairly strong for his age, but he is still his age, and the sight of the stairs makes him think the sofa is best for this situation. He settles Martin down, rearranging a pillow, fetching a blanket and laying it over the sleeping form of his captain.

He tries to imagine any of the first officers he'd worked with as captain at Air England helping him in this way. His mind draws a blank. This is definitely unorthodox. He leaves Martin be for the night and heads up to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Martin doesn't mention that night the next day, and Douglas respects this and doesn't mention it either. This doesn't stop him from being confused as hell about it. Martin slept all through the night and Douglas made sure to get a decent breakfast down him, it was the least he could do. Now in the airfield car park Martin is giving his van woeful looks as Douglas grabs his bag from the boot.

They head into the portacabin together, Martin checks the charts on the wall and Douglas collapses onto the sofa, taking the well-thumbed paperback from the nearby table and turning to his left place.

"Are you going to pull anything today?"

Douglas doesn't look up from the pages. "Nope. Nothing from this end."

"So you're collecting something in Amsterdam?"

"Nothing that end either."

Martin seems unconvinced, but heads to the desk and begins filling out the paperwork remiss from the night before.

"Anything we need to prepare?" Douglas asks, raising an eyebrow towards the wall plan.

"No, nothing."

Martin yawns and rubs sleep out of his eyes. One good night's sleep doesn't override months of sleepless nights. Douglas has brief thoughts of sabotaging his van so he has to come sleep on his sofa every night, but that's ridiculous and selfish and impractical.

Carolyn sweeps in a few minutes later, Arthur in tow. Arthur looks cheery and heads straight for the kettle while Carolyn seems a little flustered.

"Everything al right?" Douglas looks up from his book, noticing the way Carolyn is wringing her hands. He can cope with Carolyn's default cynical anger at the world and everything in it, in fact that's what he prefers, but he doesn't like to see her in genuine distress.

"Fine, fine. Martin, have you done the flight plan?"

Martin's eyes snap up and Douglas can see it instantly, the tiredness, the exhaustion, the wall plan behind him glaring accusingly demanding to know why the clearly printed instructions haven't been carried out.

"I-I-I-I uh..."

Carolyn looks about to snap and Martin looks about to cry. Neither are preferable outcomes.

"I did," Douglas says quickly. "I'll just check they've processed."

Martin looks at him confused, but Douglas just ignores the stare and heads out the portacabin. He returns within five minutes and even Martin is impressed that Douglas has the speed to fill out a flight plan and have it wired through to the front of the queue in such a short space of time. He knows that Douglas must have cashed in at least one favour to make that happen, and he did it to save him.

'Thank you', He mouths as Douglas passes on his return. Douglas shakes his head in what he hopes is a 'don't mention it gesture', because really, he doesn't want Martin to mention it.

 

* * *

 

 

They reach Amsterdam in good time and Martin and Douglas head straight to the hotel. It's not as grotty as the usual outfits they're put up in, it's passable and the sheets are clean. Carolyn's put them in a double rather than two singles no doubt to save more money.

Douglas is sprawled out on his bed, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, searching the pages of his book. Martin watches for a moment before heading into the bathroom to freshen up.

When he returns Douglas is sitting up, tapping the closed cover of the book thoughtfully. He looks up as he senses Martin watching him.

"Fancy a walk?"

"At this hour?"

Douglas glances out the window between the drab lace curtains. It's evening and dark, but not too late. He smiles at Martin, placing the book down on the bedside table and carefully laying his glasses on top of it.

Amsterdam is a large city, confused by a complex of bridges and narrow alleys and wide busy roads. Martin sticks close to Douglas as they wander down the canal, passing amazingly thin buildings that seem to topple towards them. They reach a busier section of town, the crowds are thicker, and Martin remembers that it's Saturday night. Days lose a certain meaning to him after a while.

A bicycle almost knocks into him from behind and then another from in front, and though it's seconds between the missed collisions and stepping back from the curb; Douglas is gone.

He squints through the crowd, but the faces blend together and none are familiar. He's looking for yellow stripes, they'll stand out in the darkness, but it takes a moment to remember that Douglas has changed out of uniform. Now he's racking his brains trying to remember what Douglas was wearing. He thinks he's grasped something solid, but even that disappears.

He hasn't reduced to shouting his name. Not yet. He reaches for his phone, taps his pockets a few times, feels his heart drop a few stories. It must be in his uniform jacket.

Someone knocks into his shoulder sending him spinning and then there's a cluster of young women that pushes him further away from the road. He ducks into a slot in the wall between two houses, standing on the raised step to see better.

Maybe Douglas went back to the hotel. No, Douglas wouldn't abandon him, he'll be looking.

"Mijnheer."

The language is unfamiliar, the voice deep, but not in the same way Douglas' is. This voice is rough as cut glass and lacks the relaxed timbre that Douglas commands.

"Mijnheer," The voice repeats, and Martin takes a step back in surprise, falling into the alley behind. A strong arm catches him and then it's pulling him further into the darkness, tall bricks surrounding him, light and sound from the street suddenly muffled.

It takes him a moment to struggle, but when he remembers his wits he struggles with all his might. A rough hand is pressed over his mouth and then a hand is violently searching his pockets while yet another passes across his wrists. It's then Martin realises there's more than one.

"Hey!" He yells through the oppressive palm, wishing he knew any Dutch at all, but unfortunately he is sorely lacking. "Get off me!"

One of the hands emerges from his pocket a wallet richer and then he hears the light jangle of keys. One of them is saying something, close to his ear, he flinches. The voice grows insistent. Martin would hazard a guess that they want to know what they're for.

_They're for a van in Fitton and you're welcome to it if you can get it to go._

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants Douglas. Really he should be hoping for the police, but he'd rather it was Douglas here with him, he'd fix this. Maybe he could reuse that joke, 'spare van keys', yes that had been a good one. He laughs, feeling a little delirious, collapsing further into several sets of arms.

His attackers don't like that much. He gets a punch in the kidneys and then he's on the floor, wet cobbles soaking through the knees of his jeans. The furious voice is back in his ear, asking a question he barely understands, and Martin doesn't know what to say. He never knows what to say, Douglas is the one with the words, Douglas would know what to say here, he'd have a one-liner ready.

"Laten hem alleen!"

The hands on him freeze. He hears the clatter of keys on concrete, watches as the van keys rest on the ground just short of a puddle. There are running feet, confused shouts, angry shouts, and it takes him a moment to realise they're gone. He's free from the grip.

Martin leans against the alley wall, pressing his forehead into the cool brick. He opens one eye, glances at the end of the alley, at the formidable silhouette marked out against the street lamps and the rain.

"Martin?"

The voice is gentle, a change from the fierce angry shout just moments before. "Are you hurt?"

Martin shakes his head imperceptibly. He looks up at Douglas, feeling the warmth spread from his fingers across his shoulder, he smiles.

"You speak Dutch?"

Douglas helps Martin to his feet, picking up the wallet and keys. They take a taxi back to the hotel and Martin sneaks his hand into Douglas'. He's still shaking, but he barely notices how much.

"Thanks," He murmurs softly into Douglas' shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

They stop off in London on their way home. It's supposed to be a quick layover, but then something's wrong with GERTI and they have to wait longer.

"Bar?" Douglas suggests to no one in particular. Carolyn frowns and scrunches her face up, no doubt calculating how much this will cost. Arthur wants to stay with GERTI and Martin never was much of a bar type, but he wishes Douglas luck. Douglas pretends not to know what that means and heads for the airport lounge.

He's never felt embarrassed about not ordering anything alcoholic. He'd drink from a carton of apple juice through the straw, he didn't care. He orders something with elderflower and stays on one of the bar stools to drink it.

No matter what Martin was trying to insinuate he wasn't interested in pulling tonight. Amsterdam had been more than he was prepared to handle and he was exhausted. Martin hadn't slept much that night, but Douglas promised not to mention anything and offered to operate the whole way back. He was well within hours and could manage without the break.

"...Douglas?"

Douglas looks up from his drink. It's not Martin, it's a woman's voice. He's in an airport and a woman has recognised him, not an entirely rare occurrence, this could be anyone. But it isn't anyone.

He chokes a little, but coughs, regaining composure.

"Helena, what a...pleasant surprise."

He puts on a winning smile. There's no reason not to be polite, the divorce proceedings were fairly innocuous and they're all behind him. She snorts.

"Here alone?"

He doesn't want to answer, he doesn't owe her an answer, but he finds himself nodding and mumbling yes. She laughs, and it's not long or harsh or malicious, but the act itself is cutting.

"Looking for someone to take home then? Some things never change."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He quickly drinks as much of the liquid left in his glass as possible lest he eventually decide to throw it in her face. He'd never stoop so low, but there's no harm in eliminating the risk.

"How old are you now? Fifty-nine?"

"Fifty-seven," He says quickly. He doesn't want to lose his temper, not now. "Is that important?"

"Not really. Still trying to pick someone up in a bar at your age..."

She trails off and there's something of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. Helena is younger than Douglas, but not that much younger. There's less of a difference between him and her than him and Martin, and then his throat tightens a little because why on earth is he making that comparison.

He's vaguely aware of the people closest to him watching the exchange, someone is definitely very close behind him, he knows they're listening.

"I picked _you_ up in a bar," He remarks. It's a worthless point in the spar, but he has to get something in.

Helena wrinkles her nose. "A nice bar. A bar at a wedding reception."

"My own wedding reception."

Helena ignores the comment. "Still working with those funny little people?"

Douglas bristles. He knows this is what exes are supposed to do. Meet up in the street and secretly feel happy that the other has put on loads of weight or lost their job, but he's not meant to be on the losing side.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh Douglas, yes you do. Those strange people, that insufferable woman and the one who should probably be institutionalised. Oh, and the tiny one."

"I think you should go."

Douglas agrees with this statement. He wholeheartedly approves of Helena pissing off back to where she came from. He thinks she should go, but he also knows his lips are still pressed together in a furious line and that he didn't say those words.

Helena rounds on the man behind Douglas, and Douglas can feel him inch closer.

"Excuse me?"

Douglas turns to look at Martin, in an instant he gives him a look of confusion, desperation, gratitude, and admiration. "What are you-..?"

Martin quickly interrupts him, draping his arm round Douglas' shoulder and leaning in close.

"I came to see if you'd ordered that drink for me yet...darling." Martin gets the words out, they'll slightly awkward and stiff, but he manages it, and then Douglas realises what he's doing.

"Who the hell are you?"

Martin turns to Helena, eyes more menacing than Douglas have ever seen them, and he practically growls. "Leave him alone."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Helena," Douglas begins slowly, looking to Martin for encouragement to continue on. "Allow me to introduce Martin. He's my...boyfriend."

Martin nods, chin stuck out firmly, and for a moment Douglas really does believe the words.

Helena shakes her head and looks between them. "No one as slippery as you could do as well as him, Douglas."

Martin's cheeks flush, he tries not to appear too flattered by the compliment. He always thought Douglas was far too good for him. Maybe that was an excellent basis for a pretend relationship, both imagining the other to be far superior to themselves.

"I don't believe this."

If Helena doesn't believe it then Martin is going to make her believe it. He'll make this the most believable thing Helena's ever seen.

He puts one hand to Douglas' face, fingertips caressing his cheek softly, and then he brings the other up to greet it, palm to cheek. Douglas looks so taken aback, his eyes are wide as he tries to keep up with Martin's tremendous courage, his eyebrows are raised in silent surprise. Martin decides he likes Douglas' eyebrows, he likes them a lot, well, he likes all of Douglas really.

He runs a hand across the back of Douglas' neck, thumb stroking the nape, and he pulls gently until their faces are so close. He sees Douglas nod, a millimetre of movement, and then Martin presses their lips together. It's delicate, chaste almost, it doesn't have to be intense to portray love, and Martin wonders who he's even trying to convince anymore.

"Jesus Christ."

Martin pulls back, licks his lips, and looks sideways at Helena. He can tell by the look on her face, convincing enough indeed. It isn't until she's said a hurried goodbye and is halfway across the bar that Douglas notices Martin's fingers still resting against his cheek.

He brings a hand up to meet them, touches curiously.

"Sorry about that," Martin mutters, putting some space between them. "You looked like you could do with some help and I was just passing and-"

Douglas doesn't let him finish. Hands are in his hair, fingers tugging at curls, pulling them back together. This time there's no one to convince, it's no performance, this moment is as real as it gets, and Douglas wonders what took him so long. He breaks the kiss first and takes one of Martin's hands in his own, gripping it tightly.

"Thank you," He barely whispers, but they're so close that Martin hears it perfectly.


End file.
